


here from far

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fantasizing, Masturbation, Older Man/Younger Woman, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5244137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux





	here from far

He made it clear: I'm not your boyfriend. Thus far and no farther. A line in the sand.

So Clara resigns herself to her fantasies. _Turning, dropping the chalk, drawing patterns over her body instead and leaving little white trails behind. Sucking at her clit instead of that spoon._ Clara is past slippery and all the way to wet when he walks in. "Clara, I found - " When he realizes what she's doing, his typically brash and erratic enthusiasm hits pause almost immediately.

Clara meets his gaze and keeps going. She feels a little defiant. _You can give me this tiny room, you can pretend that nothing is different, but I still have this. I can still take care of myself._ He continues watching her as she rubs a few fingers over her own clit. A tiny whimper escapes her, followed by a tinier _fuck_ as she clenches and comes.

Her breath catches in her chest as he spins on his heel, shuts her door with a snap. She can hear his footsteps recede down the hall. Breathe, breathe, until they fade into silence.

She doesn't bring it up, so she's more than a little surprised a few days later when he does. "You know, you don't have to do that."

Clara considers asking _do what?_ Play innocent, dare him to breach whatever walls he's trying to build. But she doesn't. Instead, she waits for him to continue. The Doctor clears his throat and goes back to writing, scattering all his ideas and fears over those blackboards in endless chalk lines. It's just like in her fantasies: the way he stands at his blackboards, lost in thought. _Draw over me instead._

"You can use me instead."

"I thought you said you weren't - "

"It wouldn't be sex," he's quick to clarify. He keeps on scritching on the blackboard. Some kind of Gallifreyan. She can discern numbers somewhere in there as well. An equation. For what, she has absolutely no idea.

"But something like it?" she asks, moving to stand next to him.

He stiffens, stops writing. Puts down his chalk, dusts off his hands. "That seems to be something you need," he responds. He looks down at her - the same way he watched her as she made herself come. Like he's taking her apart in his mind, trying to figure her out. An equation, strung up on one of his blackboards. "And if you're my companion - if you're traveling with me - if this is your home - " The Doctor clears his throat again, stops. Restarts. "If you _want_ it to be your home. Then I would be. Willing to provide that for you."

The silence that follows is enormous. It stretches out and envelopes Clara, makes her stomach flip and all her nerve endings start to buzz. She barely notices that the Doctor has sat down now, on the stairs leading towards the console. He gestures for her to sit, too.

So Clara adjusts her skirt, settles herself on his thigh, and leans forward. She braces her palms against his upper thigh. Her throat feels dry. They can't be. This isn't -

_That seems to be something you need._

She blushes, hot and blotchy, remembering how caught she was. Pinned under his gaze.

The Doctor has got her pinned the same way now: they don't break eye contact, even as she begins slowly, slowly rolling her hips. He can feel it, then: the hard little bud of her clit as she rubs - no, _presses_ \- against his thigh. Her underwear and tights are no protection, she's leaking onto him. Eventually Clara makes an injured little sound, something like _unnnnnhhhhh_. Both of them shiver: it's a visceral reminder of how she made that sound with her own hand working feverishly between her legs. Then her cunt grips his thigh in greedy spasms. She rides it out, still twisting her hips as she follows the last bursts of pleasure. Clara lifts off his thigh and flicks her eyes down, notices the damp patch she left behind. "I - sorry." She's not sure what else to say. Swallows, feels that enormous silence settle over them again.

 _That seems to be something you need._ It becomes the frame, and Clara learns to exist within its limits. This but not that. I'm not your boyfriend. A line in the sand. A drawing on the blackboard.

"I want to watch you," the Doctor says, later, after a particular adventure has left them both a little shaken. Metal aliens, nasty business. He pauses. Licks his lips. "Again."

She stares at him. _That seems to be something you need._ More and more, though, she's starting to wonder if it's not something that he needs, too. So Clara runs her fingers in familiar patterns over her cunt, gathering the wet, when he asks, "What do you think about when you -" He gestures.

Clara somehow manages to tell him her fantasies out of her semi-incoherent thoughts. Encounter after encounter, dreamed up in her mind in blurts of color and noise. She unwinds all her imaginings, reveals them like she's hooked up to the telepathic circuits. "So you want me, then," he summarizes.

The silence returns. This thing that they're doing, just orbiting around each other, has slipped out of their hold now.

"Yes," Clara responds, finally breaking it.

"Do you - " He swallows. "Now?"

Clara stops, pulls her sticky hand away. Her cunt throbs briefly in a distant, wanting tremor. "Please."

Watching him take his clothes off is hypnotic: he's so slow and deliberate with every motion. She gets a bit distracted, almost forgetting that she's supposed to be getting naked, too.

She gives him an experimental lift-lower, adjusts to how he feels inside her. She gasps a little, asks, "is this ok?" as she rests a hand on his chest. Both his heartbeats have gone haywire. His eyes fall shut, his mouth is open, his pulse is jumping in his neck. He mutters something in Gallifreyan that he cuts off with a deep groan when she shifts her hips. Then he swallows, slurs, "yes, yes, it's fantastic, no - keep going, please - " She's dripping down him, wet nestling into his hair: all those coarse grey-black curls.

It's another equation, another line on the board. But this time, they write it together.


End file.
